


a coffin made of glass

by irresistible_revolution



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Incest, but really this is me venting my fifteen year LUST for padme, creepy!kylo, did i mention skywalkercest ahaha, dub con, kylo has the hots for rey and also his grandmother, skywalker incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 12:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irresistible_revolution/pseuds/irresistible_revolution
Summary: They say Kylo Ren’s descent began with Vader, but they were blind. There would be no Vader, and no Ren, without her.





	a coffin made of glass

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hot for Padmé and so is Kylo.

_i rise up from the dead before you_  
_a nimbus of dark light_  
_to say that the only mercy_  
_is memory,_  
_to say the only hell_  
_is regret._

\- lucille clifton

* * *

 

 

They say Kylo Ren’s descent began with Vader, but they were blind. There would be no Vader, and no Ren, without _her_.

In the dream, Ben walked by a glistening lake in summertime. He was not Kylo yet.

He had not yet seen her.

His dream was drenched in light, soaked with the brilliance of Naboo’’s countryside. He walked in someone else’s shoes, the robes of a Jedi he had never worn, would never have the chance to wear.

And there, at the end of a paved walkway, past dancing fountains, a figure leaned on the balustrade overlooking the lake. He had the impression of a slender form encased in soft, pale silks, dark hair gathered into the shape of a conch, her back and shoulders bare. When she moved, her gown was the color of dawn. She saw him coming and smiled, waving her hand. Called him by a different name. _Anakin_.

He touched metal fingers to the hollow of her spine. Her smile never faltered.

 

* * *

 

He asked no questions, confided in no one about her. Not even Snoke. She was a pearl tucked away in the darkest recesses of his mind that no one else could reach - that no one else would value.

Sometimes the dream changed, and she was naked beneath him, her oval face damp and beatific as he plunged inside her. Other times she teased him, floating just out of reach in a black garment that clung tight to her body, her shoulders golden in the firelight, her smile coy and knowing. Those were the nights he longed to avenge himself, to break her smile like an egg and draw out his name. He proved his mastery soon enough and she yielded, graceful as a queen. The taste of her was clear and sweet like lakewater. She bled it, wept it, gave it to him in waves. Her cries sharp and melting in his ears, her legs open and eager and never closed. She was the light the Jedi worshipped, the absolution the Sith craved. She came shuddering and radiant, every single time.

 

* * *

 

He did not see her likeness until the forest, washed in the blue light of a saber that ought to be his. The scavenger surprised him. He had sensed her strength in the Force- had thought to coerce and corrupt it. But it was how she rushed to FN-2187’s fallen body, how she wept tears and cradled the traitor - it was that which him shake with wanting, with helpless rage.

He wanted to gather those tears in a golden cup and drink them. Make her refill it every day. He wanted to slice her open and draw out her spine like pearls, taste each bone and feel her shiver.

When he lay awake after their battle, his face pulsing with the wound she had left, _she_ came to him again. She crooned soft songs and lay his head on her lap. Promised him they would soon be together, in all ways.

He knew then what he must do.

 

* * *

 

“Come.”

Over the ruin of Snoke’s corpse he reached out his hand. Now would be the moment, he was certain. She had brought herself here, in a coffin made of glass, to fulfill the vision that would feed them both. He could already picture her robed in blue, dark hair spilling over her breasts, mouth parted for his name.

They were so close. He could taste it.

When she fled, his rage and thwarted hunger followed her, echoing like a roar across the bridge from him to her, a scourge that blackened the path it travelled so that when it reached her, he knew, it would taste bitter and pure and rich, without apology, like blood.

 

* * *

 

When he was finished, there was no trace of the Supreme Leader save bones. Kylo ate his unworthy master slowly, at the head of a banquet table, alone, flavored with fruits and spices and wine. It was the way of the Sith - consume, absorb, grow greater than the one who came before you. Snoke had been weak, a doddering relic with delusions of grandeur he had neither the will nor the ability to fulfil.

Across the table, Padmé watched him cut the sinewy, shriveled heart into chunks. Her lips glistened where she had licked them and her thighs fell longingly open, beckoning.

 “ _After_ I’ve eaten,” he chided, swallowing another forkful

 She watched him, rapt, joyful, hungry. He floated an eyeball through the air to land in her waiting mouth. Her smile was that of a young girl, grateful for her gift.

 

* * *

 

 

Imbibing Snoke was instantly effective. His powers stretched and preened, longing to run free, to go further than ever before. One night, he entered the scavenger. She was bedded down on a small cot on some far-flung planet, her hands working furiously between her legs while her fellow Rebels slept. Her mind recoiled from his, but she was too weak with arousal to evict him completely.

“You need more privacy,” he whispered, repainting the scene so they were alone, by a lakeshore in Naboo, at twilight, so the falling shadows could lend her some modesty. She was not so sure of herself as Padmé, she still needed to hide.

He sensed it at once, the change in her body as she let the starlit lake and sky surround her, blotting out everything else but the aching sweetness her fingers stoked, the pulsing thrum she could surrender to completely.

Her hand worked in earnest now, more slapdash than practiced. She was practically fucking her own palm. He would have to school that out of her, teach her more artful ways.

“You’re very close, aren’t you?” he observed against her hair, making her growl.

“Get. Out.”

“Make me, Rey,” he whispered and she shuddered. His fingers ripped off the back of her shirt, exposing her spine. He dragged his tongue along that path, over her shoulders and the nape of her neck, then down again, urging her on, feeling her muscles tense with the coming orgasm -

 -she stopped. The little traitor _stopped_. She pulled herself back from the precipice and tucked away her wet, guilty hand. “Get out,” she said again, and this time she was resolute, her will gathering strength. He retreated slowly, ghosting teeth along her calves, promising retribution.

 

* * *

 

The messages from the Beyond began soon after.

A map. A facility underground girded with the Force, holding an army of glass coffins with her face in each one.

Palpatine was a true Sith, and his vision for the future, a future greater than even Vader, was full of understanding, of clarity.

“She was the root, you know,” the Emperor spoke in his mind. “From the moment Anakin laid eyes on her, he began his journey to the Dark Side. Such light she was filled with,” the old man laughed softly, “such tempting, delicious light. Nothing corrupts quite the same.”

Kylo recalled his dream, the lakeside sopping with light, her nude back and girlish smile, the warm, wet taste of her mouth, her trust, her eager love. He no longer envied his grandfather but pitied him. He had been too weak, in the end. Such a shame that his foolish uncle had burned the carcass. He would have liked to suck on Anakin’s bones. To feed Padmé some marrow and watch her eyes roll in delight.

“Your uncle was right about one thing. There was still a piece of Anakin alive in Vader that wanted to be with his Naboo maiden. Vader thought I was blind, when I was only waiting. Waiting to turn the key.”  
  
Kylo found the facility webbed in shadow and dust, but still functioning. He followed the Emperor’s instructions, got down on his hands and knees and wrenched gears into place. Han Solo had taught him well. They had the same hands.

He worked for three days and three nights until finally, the control panels beamed to life and the coffins slid open, one by one. The clones were identical, an army of Padmés, poised to be awakened by the Sith lord’s will. Almost all of them, Kylo found, were rotted away. But one remained intact. Even the star-like blossoms scattered in her dark tresses were fresh. The Emperor gave a ghostly chuckle. “Attention to detail is so important, don’t you agree?”

Kylo approached her with reverence while Palpatine watched. “Lord Ren, you have the power now. Will her to life, make her yours.”

Kylo, who had once been Ben, knelt by the casket and reached inside himself. He found the last trace of that boy, the one who drank stories of the War with wide eyes and racing heart, who loved to sleep on his father’s chest and play with his mother’s dark, dark hair, who hungered for light until his stomach hollowed with it. He grasped Ben Solo by his ankles, held him kicking and screaming upside down, and slit his throat. Somewhere, the ether rippled with Palpatine’s sigh of pleasure. This is what he had dreamed for Vader, the final key, to take the piece of him fettered to Padmé and pour it into an army that would eventually overpower Vader, a clone army with Sith magic in their veins that would swarm across the galaxy and leave no stone unturned.

Kylo saw the clone’s eyes flutter awake and climbed inside the casket with her. She was dewy and gasping with life and clung to him like a child. She was desperate for warmth, trying to burrow under his clothes. He wrapped her in his cape and soothed her, black leather on naked, newborn skin. 

He slid gloved fingers inside her and she clenched around him, brown eyes blown wide as his hand began to move in and out, slowly, until the glove grew slick.  “This will help,” he promised when she looked both startled and curious. Soon she was too excited to keep her eyes open. Her legs writhed and thrashed in the small space. A small part of him disapproved - the real Padmé was graceful, even at the melting heights of pleasure - but for now he was mesmerized. The dream come to life and made flesh.

The old Masters said the Force never forgot anything, never lost anyone. And some things and some people came together so strongly, insisted on their fate so viciously, they made echoes, ripples across time and space that would repeat and resurface and never rest. The Jedi called it fate, and legacy, and burden. The Sith knew, it was immortality.

The clone was moaning now. She called him Master. Kylo frowned - she was ruining it. He removed his fingers and shoved her under him. She was eager and pliant and begging, mourning the absence of his fingers. When his cock thrust inside her, she didn't have a chance to scream. He covered her mouth, made her swallow every sound, poured his will into her until her thin mind was swallowed up, until she understood.

Releasing her he braced both hands on the sides of the coffin, fucking her with animal abandon, hunting, scouring for that scrap of light, the pearl in the dark, his Padmé.

She knew what to do. Each time she came she chanted. _Anakin, Anakin, Anak...._

 

* * *

  
  
“You are unsatisfied,” the Emperor observed. Kylo was in his quarters, poring over maps and seeking Rey out with his mind. The clone sat curled up in his bed, wrists and ankles shackled to the post. She stared at the glinting chains with a child’s wide-eyed wonder.

Palpatine was right, he was unsatisfied. In the end, even the Emperor’s vision had faults, a paltry limit. He, Kylo, would have to go further. Craft a new Padmé.

And Rey - feral, stubborn, limpid Rey. He would mold her in the image he desired, remake her in a glass coffin.

“She is powerful, Lord Ren,” Palpatine said from the shadows. “Are you certain you can make her yield?”

The old man’s probing maddened him. In the end, he had been as impotent as all the others - Han, Luke, Anakin. None of them were worthy to cup the pearl of true power in their hands.

“Go now,” he said to the Emperor. “I have no more use for you.”

Palpatine lingered, surprised, shaken out of the Sith’s placidity to the cusp of imploring -but Kylo heard him, saw him no more. He thought of the garment Rey would wear for him when she was finally his - black and clinging like lakewater at night, a hint of blue around the waist and across her breasts, in honor of _her_. The only concession to the past he would allow.

Kylo let the Emperor vanish and fixed his mind on the future.

* * *

  
  
_Anakin Skywalker stood by a lakeshore in Naboo, eyes closed, welcoming the dawn, trying to recede into that numinous quiet deep within, where the Force was resonant._

_It was no use, really. He already heard her footsteps behind him, the whisper of her silk nightgown, white as pearls._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Umm...sooo, yeah. I already know TROS isn't gonna deliver any of the true Palpatine/Kylo/Dark Side content we deserve and I for one will no longer abide it. Let Kylo be the kinky aspirational Sith he deserves! Bring back Padmé! (Preferably in a backless dress. Ahem). Leave me your thoughts! xoxo


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